Kuroshitsuji: Earthshine
by SilyaBeeodess
Summary: Londoner, vigilante, and murderess Nicole Abott finds herself heeding the whims of a madman after his having swiftly discovered her identity. Yet, strangely, all he has ever required of her are two things: A bit of amusement now and then, and the bodies of some of the men she's slain. Rarely has she questioned this, but dark, closely-kept secrets may bring ruination still.
1. Chapter 1

_(( **Author's Note:** Hey, everyone! Thank you for checking out my fanfic, Earthshine. Orginally, this fanfiction started out on DeviantArt, but after much thought I decided to bring it over here. However, I want all of you to know that it might take me some time to update this particular fanfiction. As I post them on my DA account, I've committed myself to drawing a screenshot for every chapter, therefore it takes me a while longer to work on each one since each is posted at the same time. Please feel free to check them out at any time. My user for DA is the very same as on here: SilyaBeeodess._

 _Enjoy!))_

The Undertaker looked up from his work to gaze across the dirt road toward what remained of what had been the largest farmhouse within the small neighborhood and grinned. It didn't seem to be much of anyone's house anymore—half burned down with the entire right wall reduced to charred wood and ash. The blackened support beams and cracked boards that remained standing held some semblance of spears and arrows lodged within the earth of an ancient battlefield. Men and women alike busily scuttled between homes in fervor in the community's efforts to restore the simple peace of their daily lives that had been robbed from them less than twenty-four hours prior. Occasionally, a puerile lad or two would appear from the nearly wood or fields, dragging along some of the livestock that had been released in order for them to escape the flames. A young girl—barely old enough to run on legs chubby from baby fat—clutched tightly to the scorched form of a doll that hadn't survived the fire and cried. From what he had gathered, it appeared that the child's toy suffered more than anyone. Things could've been worse.

Wood grated against wood as he pushed one of the plain pine coffins he had brought to the village back into his cart with the aid of one of the farmers. Two others stood to his left, placing the lid atop a second coffin thereby sealing the corpse it contained within. "Good riddance, I say," huffed one of them—a bearded fellow with heavy brows crinkled with age—as the pair heaved the box parallel to the first. "I always knew these scoundrels were never up to any good! Always drunk and cursing and raving about the landlord! We should've done something back when they shot a couple of Ernest's cows, but we didn't! Should've chased them out of town! Now look!"

"Hush, Jeb. One of them was one of Anna's boys," chided the second; a younger man, but with a mature gaze in his deep brown eyes. "And it's bad luck to speak ill of the dead."

"Bad luck, huh? We had bad enough luck from them when they were alive: I'm not scared of them haunting me now." He jumped down from his position atop the cart to help the other load the last of the pine boxes. "Besides, you didn't say I was wrong."

"I didn't."

"So you agree with me then."

"I didn't say that either."

The grey-haired reaper snickered quietly at the antics of the pair, causing them both to cast him a curious glance before setting about finishing their task. Leaving the rest of the work in their hands, the third of the farmers thrust himself over the side of the cart to assist the Undertaker in moving one of the only two favorably-crafted coffins into one of the farmhouses, for while the bodies of the criminals would be buried elsewhere without ceremony the pair of their victims—one murdered and the other trampled to death by terrified horses during their escape from the fire—were still due their funeral rites and their families required time to mourn.

Shockingly enough, as far the townspeople were aware, none of them actually knew how the criminals themselves had perished all save for one that one of the men had shot down after most of the chaos had already ended. The attack had been so unexpected and unprovoked that no one could prepare themselves in time for tragedy. The only aggressor still breathing—found lying on the earth unconscious behind a barn, bound with strips of rope more often used for forage—denied all knowledge of how he wound up in such a state before he was taken away by the police, and it wasn't as though the dead had any means any longer to speak of their fates.

Well, perhaps not to most mortals anyway.

The small cottage that the Undertaker now entered was an island of solitude amid the bustle of the activity that the rest of the village partook in. The man of the house—a pilose, yet thin figure—ushered them inside with the faintest of smiles and saddest of eyes, sealing the door quietly shut behind them. They were then greeted in the two-room home by a small gathering of people, predominantly woman, who at first turned to them upon their entrance as though they hadn't expected their arrival. The dejected postures and harrowed expressions settled in soon enough though.

The corpse that lay upon the table, covered by a thin sheet, was one of a young girl ripe of age: A year or so older and she might have been a married woman. A pretty thing with rounded cheeks and hair of a rich shade of auburn, even though her nose was a bit crooked. The matron, the mother, sitting upon a cracked stool appeared to be far older than she probably was, and clenched her daughter's hand—stiff from rigor mortis—so tightly as though attempting to divert her own life-force into the child through the connection. Her face, numb from grief, was already streaked with tears shed, but the sight of the coffin severed the cords of her shattered heart anew and she collapsed over the girl's body, digging trembling fingers into her chest as a lamenting cry rose up from her throat.

The Undertaker looked over to group of four gathered together in the adjacent room. An elderly woman—possibly the grandmother; a lad who seemed to be in his twenties, but was thin and had boyish features like his father; a middle-aged miss dressed in the dark garments of one who had been widowed for sometime, forcing herself to keep her attention on her task as she ground a variety of the herbs set beside her.

Last of all was a young woman whom he actually recognized: He had become familiar with her sleek, bronze waterfall of locks—though now pulled up in a loose, hastily-fashioned bun that seemed ready to fall apart with the slightest of motions—and independent posture. As he directed his gaze to find hazel irises peering back at him inquiringly he gave her a knowing smile. Despite her ivory skin and clear femininity, she was lean in figure and carried an aura of one always driven with purpose.

As the deceased girl's father began explaining where the second coffin was to be delivered, attention had shifted away from the mortician and resolute damsel. She was busy cleaning a deep, reddened scuff upon the young man's face with a wet rag, but as the Undertaker shuffled closer she shot him a fervent look before flicking her eyes briefly to the door and giving a faint nod its way. _If you want to talk, we'll talk,_ he read, _but not now._ He found his smile only growing wider and anticipated with fiendish delight the various ways he could dig into her skin. It had become a sort of verbal game with them to constantly bicker and bait one another—his own doing more than hers—and in which their back and forth quips inevitably resulted in his vexing her to the point of lividity before smoothing the matter over. She made the game too easy at times, but her flustered reactions were all too tempting to resist.

And even with their bouts they always managed to cross paths and resume the game anew. Were it not out of necessity, she probably wouldn't endure his persistent goading in the slightest. However, her self-commissioned responsibilities and all the deviance they were linked to led her to his parlor time and time again, as well as into a fragile, yet binding acquaintanceship based on his knowledge of her work. Overall, she wanted little more from him than his silence.

As the widow took over tending to the boy's wound, she scooped a dark cloak hung upon the wall and dismissed himself from the household without so much as a courteous glance his way. A few minutes after he did similarly, tipping his hat and giving his condolences to the family before following after her at an unassuming distance. It wasn't until after they had walked some ways past the farmhouses and barns, down the dusty lane, and close to a clump of woods near the vast fields of barley that she pivoted upon her foot to face him—the sun rays reflecting all shades of gold off of her hair. "What are you doing this far from London?" she pressed heatedly, "Isn't this a ways off for your usual work?"

"Don't assume I tracked you all this way, love: You're company isn't all that enjoyable," he taunted, savoring the roll of her eyes as he spoke his given pet name for her. "But to answer your question, I'm merely on delivery." True, normally, the local carpenter would've seen to the construction of the coffins; however, with crisp autumn air signaling winter's fast approach and the damages done to the farm being a more pressing matter, the families of the deceased had called the eccentric mortician away from London for the job in his stead. Fortunately, the village was not all too terribly far from London itself—just a few leagues across the Thames. "I believe it's my turn to ask you now. What are _you_ doing this far from the city?"

"The same as you: work," she replied curtly, though knowing he would only interrogate her further she complied by adding, "If you must know, I had business with a gentleman near Maidstone and I overheard a couple of those disgusting topers at a tavern discussing their intentions to sack some of the tenant farmers."

Leave it to her to always be where trouble was thriving and the grass fed on crimson, but the Undertaker had to admit that she was effective; a paragon of a vigilante if there ever was one. It was the one reason the Yard detested her so much and were so eager to have her at their mercy, for although she went unknown to the populous, the citizens of London did recognize some earthly being that significantly helped rid of the malice plaguing the innocent—a being working _outside_ of the Yard and that which London's officers held no power over themselves.

With the young Earl Phantomhive solving most of England's major cases for the Queen, and with such a fiery maiden ridding of crime under the blanketing cover of shadows and slowly gaining notice from the public, the Yard itself was increasingly viewed more as a formality than an adequate force. Thus far, she was marked as a wanted criminal, but the very men who would hunt her down had nothing on her to go by. Nothing except him—and the mortician wasn't about to lose one of his more interesting amusements. Not until he grew bored with her, at the least.

It had been an entertaining evening the one time Lord Arthur Randall, the police commissioner of the Yard, had stopped by his shop for information on the woman and he had had to play ignorance.

"I was wondering where you vanished," he giggled, stepping alongside her to run a hand along the side of her skirt—where he knew the well-cared for spadroon was hidden beneath it and knowing all too well how easily the action unhinged her. Her cheeks lit up a slight vermillion and she batted him away from her with a look of indignation spread across her features. "You often make an effort to visit, don't you?" he further teased. "You were gone for so long this time that I was starting to think you'd finally been bested. It'd be a shame, after these past months, to learn that you were rotting in a ditch somewhere."

"I don't intend to leave this world just yet if I can help it," she barked, pulling herself away from him and then adjusting the cotton sleeve protectors she wore over her forearms—more than likely borrowed from one of the women in the village. "Now if you'll excuse me I promised to lend a hand with some of the harvest for today." Turning her back to him in further dismissal, she began to return to the farm at a brisk pace.

The Undertaker frowned a bit in disappointment at her retreat. It wasn't fun if she didn't bait him back. And she usually did. "Are you still mad about your last visit?"

"You locked me in a coffin!" she snapped, coming to a halt in the middle of the road while shouting the words over her shoulder, her cloak flattened tightly against her chest as she folded her arms together.

"In my defense, _you_ stepped into the coffin," he replied without apology. Even now it was still funny, and almost a month had passed since then. For a woman of such self-sufficiency, she was not as mature as she made herself out to be—a trait he often capitalized on when finding new ways to tease her. The whole reason he was able to trick her into doing such was simply because daring her to do it challenged her grit. What she had done in retaliation after he had let her out of the coffin—hiding the urn he used for a cookie jar while he was out of the room—had only further displayed her childish nature.

Unable to retort, she began to walk away once more while muttering obscenities under her breath. It was then that a large stain at the end of her skirt caught his eye—possessing a brown discoloration against the blue fabric and much too thin a layer to have been mud.

"Nicole!" he called after her, and so rare was his use of her real name that she immeadiately paused to look at him with a raised brow. It gave him enough time to approach her side a second time as he gestured to the stain. "I hate to embarrass you," he began with sarcastic mirth, to which she scoffed, "but it seems you have a little something on your clothes."

Her eyes widened and her scowl was replaced by sudden apprehension. Swiftly she yanked her skirt forward and held it taut, grimacing as she caught sight of the projecting blotch. "As if I needed this today!" she fumed with an exhaled breath and whipped her cloak around her shoulders.

"You left one criminal alive," he reminded her. "I would trust that you have your reasons, but if you're that worried of being found out then why didn't you kill him as well?"

"Because if I did then there would be no one to interrogate in case there are more of those brutes," she answered, tying the cloak's black cords in a basic knot. "Besides, if the police are focused on that gang then it means they're not focused on finding me. I knocked him out from behind: He didn't have the chance to see me."

"If the Yard so much as catches a whiff of what you've been up to, they'll have you strung up by the neck before you can say, 'Oops!'" he chortled, raising a finger and slashing it across his throat for visual effect. "Don't you worry though: I won't let them have your corpse tossed away like some petty felon's. I guarantee I'll pretty you up nicely."

"How reassuring…" she mumbled with a snide tone.

Farther ahead, someone whistled for them. Though they stood too far away for him to make out much more than a blur, he could at least discern that the figure was indeed one of a man's. If he needed further validation, Nicole was looking at him expectantly to react. Likely it was one of the farmers telling him all of the pine boxes had been loaded and that the final coffin had been delivered without complication. He hated having to cut their meeting short, but he supposed it was best for him to return to his parlor as quickly as he good. He had his own work piling up as it was.

"I don't suppose I could convince you to let me take you back to London with me?" he offered in hopes of prolonging their repartee.

"I already told you that I promised I'd help these people," she sighed, "I'm not about to back out on my word."

"Then you'll drop by my shop when you do finally get back," he said factually, more of an order than as an invitation. Little Lord Phantomhive hadn't seemed to have much need of his information as of late and the Undertaker felt due some means of hilarity. An evening teasing one of the most stubborn and easily ruffled women in England seemed not only desirable, but necessary.

Nicole opened her mouth to retort, but all that left her lips was a silent, irritated cry as he reached over and lightly flicked her messy bun of hair with his fingertips—making it fall apart in a cascade of golden locks. He giggled with all the mischievousness of a young boy as she sent him a vehement glare, mouth slightly agape, before bending to the ground to pick up the fallen pins that had been holding mass together.

"You nutter!" she vexed, snarling up at him from her knelt position after collecting the first few. "You have no idea how long it took me to put my hair up—much less make it stay that way!"

By the time she rose back on her feet to continue her tirade he had already vanished from her sight, leaving her confounded in the middle of the road with no one but herself to scream at. He watched her from a distance though—snickering behind his hand as her expression morphed from one of bewilderment back to one of umbrage. If nothing else tempted her to cross paths with him again, being left before getting in the final word would. In order for the game to end, she needed to feel some satisfaction of her own. Sometimes he'd treat her to small victories, if only to let her believe it could be done: This, however, was one of those times where he would push her to the limits of her patience to ensure she'd keep playing.


	2. Chapter 2

The sun hung lazily behind the multitude of clouds in the greying sky as he made it back to his shop, and one by one he unloaded the pine coffins and placed them side-by-side along the floor within his parlor. He had caught a glimpse of some of the cadavers before they had been brought to his cart and placed inside, but he found himself eager to examine them further—a conniving delight similar to a small child's as they awaited Saint Nicolas on Christmas Eve. Nicole usually tried to make clean work of her victims, but rarely was it so: Despite her success, she just wasn't skilled enough a killer, and no doubt it didn't help that she favored her sword so readily over firearms. He knew she had a pistol that she always kept at her side, but rarely did he see a corpse of her making plugged by a bullet. Not that he minded the extra work she gave him—in fact, he rather enjoyed it. Her wicked dance of death was interesting enough to watch in the eyes of those whose lives she had ended.

He didn't even mind the one she had let live out of the bunch. Whatever risk it pertained to her by allowing one criminal she had sparred with to be taken by the police, in the end, he knew, the lad's body would wind up like the others. And she knew it as well—that the insurgent youth was just as good as dead. Within a week's time, once the police were through interrogating him, he would be found guilty and strung upon the scaffold. Another life vanquished by her actions: Another guest to prepare for whatever was planned to do with his remains. It was a nice little arrangement they had.

Granted—and the retired Shinigami smiled at the thought of it—Nicole was completely oblivious to what became of many of those she had slain. If she only knew… Well, he imagined she wouldn't take well to the knowledge: He had doubts in her ability to cope with something as that. And it served better for his own purposes that she remained naïve, lest whatever the cost to herself may be she released herself of all ties to him. Though a tiny, insignificant piece in a game of his design—an extra card added to the deck—the woman was a convenient one to keep around. A puppet that played a very minor role in the show, that moved on its own accord and could snap its own strings, yet was easily manipulatable and only added to the scenes she performed in.

And she had played her part well in the previous scene, giving him some laughs and presenting him with a few more dollies to partake in the performance.

He had promised the families of the trio of bodies had been claimed that the remains of their loved ones would be cremated or buried—ashes scattered in some unknown location or corpse placed within an unmarked grave as post-mortem punishment dictated; a complete waste in his eyes. Nevertheless, he would fulfill his word to them. The fate of the others was left to his own discretion, and he found it far more suiting that their remains be used for something of value rather than be delivered unsentimental rites under a false sense of moral obligation to the departed. Those mortal shells would instead be used to create something… beautiful.

His fingers idly roamed to the mourning chain at his waist, running along the surface of each of the seven lockets as he briefly recited the names belonging to them in his mind. Unhooking its small latch, the Undertaker removed it from his person momentarily to shed the hat, sash, and large overcoat draped around him—placing all three garments atop an empty, mahogany coffin—so he might continue his work with greater ease. He slipped his ring from his finger and onto the chain for safe keeping before refastening the latch as he bound his treasures to him once more. Then he locked the door to avoid any interruptions for the remainder of the day.

His gaze fell upon the row of pine boxes and he approached the one resting on his far right first. He opened each and examined them carefully: All were still stiff from rigor mortis and putrefaction had yet to set in, though some already bore blisters. He only found dissatisfaction in one—the only one of which Nicole had clearly used her pistol against at close range, obvious by the bullet wound and the significant damage done to the front of the skull, making the man almost unrecognizable. Perhaps the youth had caught her off guard and forced her to act quickly in to order to fend for herself, not that it mattered: What did matter was that this one was practically useless to him.

The rest were of more adequate condition: most with injuries focused around the abdomen, two whose throats had been slit open, one whose ligaments had been severed at the back of the knee—good; she _was_ heeding his occasional advice—and another whose forearm had been hacked halfway through. Include the fellow who had been shot by one of the farmers and he had quite the intriguing mix. Two corpses to bury within a criminals' cemetery, one to cremate, and one beyond use, leaving four remaining for him to work with for the time being: Not a bad day's collection.

True, Karnstein Hospital gave him a near endless supply, but acting as the hospital director's, Ryan Stoker's, 'research partner' presented a few limitations in its own right. It was certain that progress had escalated in his experiments with his Bizarre Dolls due to their aid, yet he found it much more preferable to work at his own pace without the need to cover the reality to their test subjects' resurrections.

Hefting one body from its coffin—a lad who looked not quite yet a man, but sported whiskers upon his face frozen in pain—he carried it into the back room where an embalming table had already been set up and placed it upon its flat surface.

Trails of already dried crimson ran along the corners of the body's mouth as well as soaked its vest and undershirt. He gave a single, long whistle as he leaned over the corpse and began to prod the wound upon its chest with his finger. It was a large gash—considering the type of blade Nicole used—which cut right through the lung: Based on just that simple glance, he suspected that upon further investigation he would find that she had had to wrestle her spadroon free from the body. _One would think years of experience,_ he inwardly tssked, _would've taught her to strike properly and with enough force for a clean cut_. Then again, this one may also have caught her off guard. He'd be lying if he said he hadn't seen some steady improvement.

Coagulated blood collected on his fingertips as he pulled his hand away. The Undertaker toyed with the thick liquid a moment before stepping away to wash his hands and collect his tools. An array of equipment and bottled fluids was pulled atop a smaller, second table alongside the body: A gleaming scythe—the metalwork along the snathe detailed with the ribs and skull of a human being and a crown of thorns resting upon its head—was summoned to his hands.

* * *

"Come on now, dear, you've barely eaten a thing. You're like a little bird, you are: Scrawny."

"Ha! I only wish my girls had her appetite. They eat as though the world were coming to an end."

"Mama!"

Nicole sat in silence within the circle of women and children, observing the idle chatter and gossip with little interest despite the group's interest in herself—an outsider from London that passed through their village at the worst of times. Bless them; they tried to remain light of heart and good of company, but their smiles and laughter did little to hide the distress and mourn that still lingered over the course of recent events. What right did she have to sit among them?

She had stepped away from the brunt of the work in the fields to assist the rest of the women with the evening meal, just as she had at midday. The majority of the men had meanwhile divided themselves into two groups: One tending to repairs and the other continuing the harvest. The tenant farmers as a whole, however, were working late into the night to fix the damages to their livelihood. Supper had already been delivered to the men; now it was their turn to take a moment's breath and enjoy a bite to eat—huddled together in a mass to fight off the chill of the autumn air, encompassing the soft glow of a fire and the large pot strung above it. Vegetables ripe from the gardens and bread made fresh that morning, the food was nothing to complain about, and yet it still managed to taste stale in her mouth.

"I've been feeling a bit ill lately," she excused herself, allowing her gaze to sink to the warm, creamy mixture contained within her bowl. "Please forgive me."

She couldn't look at the woman sitting apart from her with two small boys in between them: Anna, as she had been introduced. It wasn't often she met the family of the people she killed. She didn't like it, and now, because of her façade, she would sleep within this woman's home that night, in the bed of her dead son whom the Undertaker had carted away with the rest of the criminals. A kind offer and one she hadn't been able to refuse out of politeness in turn, but it sickened her.

How strong this woman was, to try to remain cheerful after the death of her eldest child and to be denied of mourning unlike the families of the group's victims. A criminal was to be forgotten, not grieved for, as a dishonored blot upon a family's name—meant to be scrubbed away as any filthy stain would be. Yet Nicole knew it was not so simple to forget: Instead it haunted you. If only the other knew she sat so close to the cause of her despair, the very woman she shared bread with and gave a roof to for the night…

"If you're unwell then Margaret's food is just what you need," chuckled a pretty girl perhaps a few years younger than she, lush ringlets springing free from her bonnet and a baby less than a year old nestled in her arms. "She practically saved me during my pregnancy with her cooking." Many other women nodded along in agreement and before Nicole could voice against it, another girl refilled her half-eaten bowl of turnip soup with another large helping.

"Thank you," she murmured, forcing a soft smile and spooning a bit of the dish into her mouth even as it caught in her throat.

"Ya said ya were from London, didn' ye?" began to question another young woman in a faded, pink skirt and simple, button-up blouse, "So what's a city girl doing down this way—and all by her lonesome no less? Where's your husband off to?"

"You blind dunce! Can't you see she doesn't have a ring?" one of the others attempted to whisper to the former, much to the amusement of a few members of the surrounding audience.

"I'm not married," Nicole confirmed over their snickering. "I only came to the country for a bit of work in the fields and was just passing through here before returning to London."

"Right in the middle of the harvest?"

"They were supposed to be short on hands," she shrugged, shoveling down a bit more of the soup without raising her eyes from the bowl. Stirring her spoon in the concoction, she added, "It turned out they didn't need any more by the time I got there."

Lies upon lies. Her business wasn't farming; it was blood. The bulk of her time was devoted to her work as a vigilante in secret and a Samaritan of the church in the public eye: However, neither did much of anything to provide food for the table. The very same blade she devoted to protecting some was used to cut her meat and bread as well. Nearly the entirety of her wages consisted of dirty money stained with crimson. Once she realized that her meager funds wouldn't support her forever and what odd small jobs she could get weren't enough to live on, what began as looting what little there often was from those she killed during her vigilante work had transformed into hired theft and the occasional assassination as her reputation grew. Nicole had never actually met with any of her employers in person, but they knew where to put the money out for her. And if she saw it well enough by her own moral code to take the job, she would.

Such as with the man in Maidstone. A local baronet apparently had a fancy for young and pretty girls, but not enough of one to let them live after he had enjoyed their company. As expected, most of the baronet's crimes had been swept under the rug for the longest time. However, the man who had hired her—whose daughter had fallen victim of the baronet one fateful evening before she could return home—was no ordinary commoner; a wealthy member of the highest middle class owning a great deal in stock. Despite how he couldn't get the police to investigate, discovering the matter as an absolute truth had been child's play. Now the baronet was gone and she was several sovereigns richer for the journey.

Nevertheless, she couldn't help but loathe herself even if it was necessary. Dirty money—that's all it was. It wasn't the reason she chose the scorched and broken path she walked on. So when she could she would take whatever work in London she could find by day: laundry, deliveries, an extra pair of hands as needed by whoever could spare a farthing. With as much as she had made in this one job, she wouldn't need to take on any others of its kind for a while. Good fortune that was at least, for it also placed her higher on the Yard's wanted list. In that regard, keeping a low-profile was of greater value than making a living.

"Of all the bigoted things!" barked a grey-haired woman with a missing tooth as her lips curled into a sneer, "Dragging a poor girl all the way out here and then sending her off without an escort! Suppose chivalry truly is dead then!"

"I'm afraid chivalry has nothing to do with business," she dismissed lightly, "especially in this day and age."

"You'd have to know all about that, being from London," pouted one of the younger women. "I've got cousins working in the factories there. They're always worked to the bone."

As the topic gradually shifted away from her, Nicole's thoughts also gradually drifted away from those around her to the affairs she would need to face in the near future. First was the matter of hiding the tools of her trade: A pistol, ammunition, and a spadroon. Easily done if she excused herself outside before turning in for the night, but she would have to avoid prying eyes of the men and their sons who would be working late. If she set out to leave before the tenant farmers finished preparing for the morning, she could risk hiding her belongings not far from the general area and recollect them as she made her way to London.

Then, of course, was the matter of what to do once she arrived there. Nicole had taken care of some matters before her journey, but she had rent to pay and food to buy. What she had _hoped_ to do was sweep by the marketplace to supply her for the next few days, return home to pay her landlady and get some much needed rest, and then resume her vigilante work later that evening. However, a certain mortician had thrown a wrench into that plan.

The Undertaker held no true authority over her and they were far from companions. Yet what he did hold over her was knowledge of her own activities. It still baffled her at times, recalling how easily he saw through her upon their initial meeting—as though he were looking through a plane of glass. His peeving, impish smirk as he had stared straight at her beneath his bangs, subtly unnerving her until the policemen she had travelled to his parlor with in order to deliver a corpse stepped out of earshot: Cutting a knife through the veil of her façade of a bystander unfortunate enough to happen upon the body as he snuck up behind her and whispered, _And, of course, once all matters have been settled perhaps the lady wouldn't mind remaining a moment longer for a cup of tea to calm her nerves. All that blood on her hands seems to have left her more than a bit rattled._

 _No use hiding it, love,_ he had snickered in her ear without the other men hearing. _You might fool the Yard, but you can't fool me. You reek of death._ She swore he was better than any detective could hope to compare.

Yet he hadn't turned her in and instead played along with her act. Not out of any form of courtesy or sympathy—why would he have done so; she certainly wouldn't have—but rather out of, as he had put it, amusement. The idea repulsed her, and yet she, the killer, could find no means of refuting it so long as she insisted upon the execution of others for her own beliefs of duty and justice.

Beliefs that had been laughed at once already the one time any of their informal meetings thereafter had carried any sort of significance. Every time they had met he found some means of reaping his 'amusement' from her, be it by preying on her nerves through his antics, an endless array of taunts and pranks, or by reminding her of the pile of victims that continued to build at her feet. She withstood it and remained his acquaintance to stall against the day he reported her to the Yard. Sometimes she'd find a means of returning the favor for all the madness he put her through—just as she now planned to do for his insufferable teasing earlier that very day—even if it tended to backfire in the end in some fashion.

In another sense though—the thought appearing only at times when she wasn't terribly bitter with him—he wasn't that bad an acquaintance to have. It was as nice as it was concerning for someone beyond herself to see the stains that coated her flesh. There were even moments where he had been somewhat helpful, such as hinting for her to experiment with different methods of murder so not to give the Yard a trail of connected deaths based on similar causes. She never wanted anything from him save for him to remain quiet, but, she could admit, someone who knew her—someone that neither praised the Samaritan nor applauded the vigilante—gave her conscience a small means of solace.


	3. Chapter 3

The Undertaker raised his head at the sound of the bell of his shop's front door swinging from its hook, grinning as he watched the familiar figure enter and then seal off the outside world's light, as well as the noise from the bustle of London's denizens returning home from work, behind her. His fiendish anticipation of her arrival hadn't been fatuous: As expected, she had come straight to him—if a little later in the day than he might've preferred.

Upon closer inspection of the basket dangling upon her forearm he found it reasonable to believe she might've been delaying her visit just to spite him, as she had apparently taken the time to do a bit of shopping beforehand. Potatoes, peas, onions, bread, and a few other odds and ends to get her through the week were contained within, but the bulk of her load seemed to be bushels of watercress. The green was a cheap and easy-to-purchase food for many—sometimes the sellers roaming the streets found themselves _losing_ a profit due to its excess and market value—but it was a little late for its season and by winter most would turn their noses at the mere thought of buying it.

"Are you intending to freeze your belly when the frost arrives?" he giggled, finishing the note he had been writing on the sheet in front of him and then placing his dip pen adjacent to it. He propped his elbows against the flat surface of the coffin that served as his desk, his chin coming to rest upon interlaced fingers.

"Almost every store was closing, I'd yet to finish my errands, and one of those flower girls still had quite a lot of watercress to sell," Nicole bit back, adjusting the handle of the basket so that it rested upon the crook of her arm. "I'd like to think we both made profit from the exchange." Stepping nearer until she stood just at the opposite side of the substituted desk, she added, "I had to rush through the market thanks to your insisting I come here as it is. I haven't even been home yet, and the only things I've had to eat and drink today were a plum duff and a cup of saloop from two of the street vendors."

As he examined the basket's contents further, he wondered if she hadn't purchased nearly all that remained of the waif's produce. He couldn't see her manipulating a child into selling the bushels for less than their worth—in fact, from what he had learned of her nature, it appeared that she had a sort of weakness when it came to children. He imagined more so that her heart had stepped before reason, but he also assumed it had only been a small price to pay with little to no consequence on her behalf considering what couldn't be eaten soon could be preserved and that she was still likely doing well for herself after her most recent job.

"Do you ever wonder if the children you care so much to protect now," he began to provoke, flashing a mischievous grin, "might grow to be the men and women whose lives you'll end? Do you think about which ones you're going to kill someday?" His fingers drummed idly upon the wood of his desk. "Or perhaps you wonder ever more if the orphans put to the streets are ones of your making. Is that what jostles you into such acts of compassion?"

Having prodded a sensitive nerve, he could almost feel the heat of her ire scorching from her silent glare. A laugh bubbled in his throat at her response, but he supposed that riling the young woman's temper so early in the game would only result in disappointment.

"Sorry, love," he attempted to coo over his own tittering. He rose from his seat and made a small, yielding gesture. "I really did mean for us two to have a pleasant talk. Why don't you have a seat while I prepare some tea? These nights have been getting a little too crisp lately: A cup might do you good."

"No," she answered in a curt, flat tone.

"You complained that you were half-starved just a moment ago," he retorted, already stepping out from behind his desk to enter the adjacent room, "Do you have much of a reason to decline my show of hospitality? I promise that I've washed my beakers if that's your concern: There shouldn't be a trace of embalming fluid left in them." The mortician knew she was only acting for stubborness' sake alone: His assurance of the fact was just another means of teasing her.

"I'll cook something once I get home."

"That's fine, but some tea and maybe a few biscuits could tide you over until then. You're free to have one or two, though I'd have to give you fair warning—they might be a bit stale. You hid my urn better than I thought you would: It took some time for me to find it."

The faint—though resisted—upward tug of her lips and a glimmer of mischievous satisfaction was all he needed to know she'd stay long enough for him to return. He had thrown her a new game piece, after all—even if she didn't know it was intentional—and, like a child, she would use it again and again as long as she assumed it aided her in victory. She made it all too obvious how badly she wanted to frustrate him as much as he frustrated her: Now she thought she had something that did. In truth, however, it was nothing more than another tactic of his to keep her on the game board. He wondered how long it would take before she realized how useless the piece actually was, or else grow bored with it herself.

When he reentered the parlor, he found her sitting atop a coffin constructed of English Walnut with her gaze turned to the front door to watch the silhouettes of passerby through its glass window. Her hair was pulled to one side and she combed her fingers through it idly, thinking whatever peculiar thoughts appeared in the head of a woman like her. She looked almost peaceful. The Undertaker stood quietly in the doorframe, watching on in silence with no desire to interrupt her for a brief moment. It tickled him to fancy the things he might decipher from a peak inside her mind. If he felt any sense of loss when the day came for her to die, at least he might dissect some further amusement from her Cinematic Record.

"You're being awfully patient," he finally chimed, a soft chuckle leaving him as he watched her flinch at the sudden break in her thoughts, or rather at the sudden realization that she was no longer alone in the room. He gave her one of the beakers of tea before sitting on the coffin opposite of her, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. "It seems so contradictory, given your temper."

"Only where you're involved, Undertaker," she glowered, raising the beaker to her mouth with both hands and taking a tentative sip.

Casting a glance to the side without turning his head, he found the substitute biscuit jar already missing. He hid his mouth from view with the sleeve of his robes to prevent her from seeing the Cheshire smile he couldn't contain. Yes, strange as it was for someone so resolved and fiercely independent, she was still much like a child. It was a bit of an enigma, and it was one of things that tickled his interest most: It brought to question how she lasted so long in such a dangerous profession and how she found herself in it in the first place.

"I assume you won't be heading off on anymore business trips for a while," he mused, steeping his tea bag in thought. "However, if you are planning on leaving London again sometime soon, do let me know in case I have to have your body sent back."

Grimacing over the rim of the glass, she replied, "No; unless some matter that I can't ignore beckons me away, I intend to remain in London. Though I fail to see why it's any concern of yours…"

"Would you rather whatever remains of you be tossed unsympathetically in an unmarked grave in some unknown place? And that's if no one decides to find some other use of your corpse first." Though from what he had gathered, it didn't seem as though she had any family within London who would mourn for her—only a few neighbors and church-fellows who would likely shrug at her absence. He wasn't certain that she even had a family to speak of. Her seclusion would make her a decent subject for his experiments as none would look for her either. Perhaps…

"Whoever is set with the task can toss my body into the Thames for all I care," was her succinct answer as her head tilted downwards, averting his own gaze as she looked upon the tile at her feet with an intense stare. "I only feel sorry for the fellow who may find it next if it washes ashore. Once I'm gone, I can't imagine caring otherwise."

He giggled with wicked delight, "Such dark visions for a woman still quite young. You may find yourself regretting them with the end does come." The warm liquid soothed his throat as he drained his own beaker of some of its contents. "Too often the dead leave the messy affair of handling the shells they leave behind to the living without so much as a word of what to do with them, but then I suppose if they didn't I would find my work less entertaining than it is."

"A positive view for such a forlorn subject," Nicole countered.

He heard the insect before seeing a black speck dart right in front of him as it soared to his acquaintance, rounded her form—much to her displeasure—and eventually found itself trapped in the binding threads of a spider's web. Though it had flown too far from his sight to see the event he could hear what had become the unmistakable, twitching resonance of its wings as it fought to escape. He imagined that the predator would soon—if having not already acted—spring upon its hapless prey.

The Undertaker turned his head in the direction of the sound, a taunt bubbling from his lips, "I must admit that sometimes I see you no better than the common fly, clinging to the walls of East End's filth-ridden alleys if not flittering about where you shouldn't." He felt the heat of her vexation before her eyes rose to follow his line of vision. "You should know that flies never live for long: Sooner or later you may even find yourself caught within a greater beast's snare, just like that little one." Slowly, the faint noise of the insect fell mute, as though sealing his words of warning with an ideogram.

A brief second of hesitation followed before she voiced her rebuttal, "Do you think I would've chosen my course if I had the means for such concerns? If preserving my life meant abandoning those I've fought for and protected all this time, then death would be the least of my grievances." She spoke like the heroine of some fantasy novel, at which he couldn't disguise his mirth, yet beneath it lay honest belief. Idealistic delusions of a dreamer touched with the quiet awareness that she did not want to die—even when speaking words of nonchalance. Her awareness of such a simple fact meant much: That her end would not be met with numb and foolish apathy any more than it would be with tears. Still, she had yet to face a situation in which the end was guaranteed. Only that day would test her harshest. He wondered if she would be able to maintain such a role only devoted to romanticized works of fiction. What pretty lies she told herself half-believing.

"And let's not forget that flies also swarm over the carcasses of the fallen," she continued in direct insult—not that he anticipated less. "That would make you no better."

"Maybe not," he shrugged instead of rising to her challenge, "Though that _does_ bring up another matter. My guess is you've now enough to support yourself for some while—else your first concern wouldn't have been grocery shopping." He knew of her paid jobs as much as he did her usual work, which had added to the woman's vexation upon its discovery some time ago. "It might be sensible if you were to put away your blade for a week or so."

"I won't," she answered with readied scorn. She watched him expectantly; mouth curling into snarl, knowing what was wanted of her. As part of their acquaintanceship, or what went more so as compensation for his silence, he had requested that she alert inform him of any killings on her part as well as the whereabouts of the bodies. As far as he let her know, it was only for the sakes of entertainment and of retrieving them before they could be claimed by decomposition, festering before he could put them back together. Often the police or some other misfortunate chap did the work of transporting them here, but there were occasions corpses were found only after they had been the feast of maggots and were beyond recognition. Even if she revealed her murders to him though, it bore some mutual benefit: Any small piece of evidence given by the body could be destroyed if he were to have it before the Yard.

"You'll prowl the streets without rest? A bit reckless of you isn't it?" he chortled, "But then London's proven less interesting in your absence. My usual guests aren't nearly as amusing company as the ones you send me."

"Maybe it will be a quiet night," she murmured. It was nothing more than an empty jest: Both knew such didn't exist in a place where malevolence and corruption flourished daily. Yet the paragon would continue to push against it until either her mind or body shattered from her efforts. Which of them, he wondered, would break first?

After a full day of pondering whatever her commission had been in Maidstone, the Undertaker was eager to hear the details he had been denied when last seeing her. Therefore, he tasked himself with pressuring her for the information until their evening had come to an end. And when she left, whether or not she lived or died, only one thing was certain: He needed to prepare a coffin.


	4. Chapter 4

_There truly is no rest for the wicked…_

A cold wind brushed over the woman and her shoulders rose as a faint chill curled down her spine—her cloak billowing around her as though it were a shadow attempting to swallow its bearer before she pulled it close to her form once more. The moon remained vacant from sight beyond a shroud of thick clouds and she blended in well with the surrounding darkness as she tailed after her current targets from a distance.

Experience had taught Nicole that the more capable, the more dangerous, and the more organized her opponents were, the more akin they were to a persistent weed: One could mow them down and tear them apart all one wished, but unless they were pulled by the root they would flourish anew with stubborn resolve. The lot she now pursued was a fine example, for she had only been away from London for approximately two weeks and they were already more active than when she had left them—if the copies of _The Times_ a pawnbroker in her neighborhood kept were anything to go by. The methods of disposing of their victims varied, but their strategy for capture—as well the commonalities of their targets—remained constant. Always children or young, beautiful women drugged and dragged off into the night. Stemming the frequency of such incidents had been even more gradual than discovering that they were all connected: The group's springing back so quickly only helped confirm her already solidified theories of the cases being held under a powerful and intricate nexus.

The abductor of a currently inert maiden hefted against one of his shoulders—a working girl of perhaps fourteen years—walked down the quiet streets in a brisk and careful fashion. He was observant, Nicole could tell, but her stealth had yet been bested. Since arriving to London some great deal of time ago, she had devoted herself to learning every street, every alley, and every cornerstone of the city to a point where she could guide her quarry through its labyrinth and corner them with relative ease. Not that night, however: That night she would stick to her hiding places and allow her quarry to guide her. If she wanted to guarantee the girl's safety she would have to act before they ventured to wherever the man went to conspire with other boors; however, she would follow for some time and at the risk of being outnumbered if it meant learning of such a place. If she was not lead directly to the person conducting the mass of kidnappings then in the least she might find an intermediary to interrogate.

 _Couldn't be typical black market dealers,_ she mused—concealed behind the corner of a pewtersmith's shop as she watched him cross over to the side of the street which bordered the Thames, _Not even their underlings would stray this far from the slums otherwise._ Though still surrounded by many of the poorer infrastructures of the city, they weren't very far off from the stores and dwellings of many of its middle class citizens.

There was, without doubt, a great divide that separated the East and West Ends of London—one beyond the meanings of wealth and status and that only an exceptionally rare few from either world were allowed to cross. The privileged, the well-learned, and often the stubbornly naïve stood on one side: Those that scrounged amid the filth and grime, fought for their survival, and knew all too well the darker truths of man stood on the other. Nonetheless, it wasn't impossible for a border-crosser to be responsible for disturbing the lives of those in the opposing realm. Just because people had power didn't always mean they had come to such heights by earning it.

Only after the figure had vanished over the edge of the street down to the lower walkway that leveled with the river's currently low tide did she briskly cross the road herself. From above, she watched him walk some distance further before vanishing into the entrance of an old sewage tunnel. It would have to be old, given its location: Old, and long since abandoned. Ever since the _Great Stink_ that occurred a near decade before her time such tunnels had fallen out of use. It had become a matter of public safety to close them off and build anew, even though to that day impurities continued to pollute the Thames and there were still some channels that ran far too close to the dwellings of those in the East End. It was much better than what it had once been, she had been told, yet many still found well to stay away from whatever miasma lingered within the old passages. Clearly those she pursued found purpose in society's aversion of them.

Once more she allowed him to fall briefly from her sight in order to follow his path without being seen—edging to the lip of the tunnel with her back pressed against the stonework. A faint shaft of light grew from within—likely the dim light of a lamp—and she could just make out a trio of silhouettes struck against the opposing wall inside. Excluding their captive from the shapes, that meant there were at least two adversaries. The slosh of feet shuffling through shallow water rebound off the brick and mortar until the pair came to a halt before one another.

"A righ' young an' pretty fing, isn' she?" echoed the lantern bearers voice, rough and worn as though having breathed in smoke for a grave deal of his life. The shadow of a hand rose to cup the shadow of a cheek as the girl was scrutinized by him. "A bi' too thin, bu' I sup'ose they all 're."

"One o' the late nigh' stragglers from the fact'ries," the first stated. "Funny 'a they linga' when they ain' even gonna be paid for the day's load by stayin' ter fish the work."

There was some silence as the other continued his examination still, as though the girl were little more than a slab of meat strung up for market. A swift urge to swoop down upon the men for their perverse treatment of one who had only recently begun to bloom into womanhood nearly overtook Nicole, but she reigned back her temper and the hand with laced so tightly around the hilt of her blade. A little longer: She would have to wait a little longer before acting or she might injure the girl, loose what small lead she now had, and put herself at risk all in a single moment.

"Three guineas an' a 'alf-crown ough'a cover 'er."

"Not on ya life, ya bug 'unter: I've been paid better. Las' time i'twas four wif anofa 'alf-sovereign for deliv'ry."

"An' t'nigh' ya get three," retorted the former. "I'm only the middle an' I only judge quality: I don' make the prices."

Naturally… Of course if anyone from the West End was overhead of these incidents they wouldn't force themselves into any direct relation with them so long as they didn't have to—that or they were terribly ill of mind… It was too much to hope such a feat could be solved so easily, but it didn't put an in-between out of use even if he ranked low within the criminal syndicate's hierarchy. She would comb through however many of them remained if she had to in order to uproot the lot.

Eventually the pair's haggling and bickering dwindled to an end—with the price slightly increased at the completion of the deal. With no more business to keep him there the girl was handed off and her abductor stepped back out into the open, counting the coins within his palm.

There was no time to register an inkling of shock as Nicole's spadroon pierced through his chest the second he rounded the tunnel's entrance.

"You lot must have some nerve about you to begin hunting so early in the night. Not all of London is asleep quite yet," she voiced in a dangerously low octave, striding within the sewage channel—the bottom of her cloak and skirt as well as her boots soon becoming soaked as she stepped within the unmoving stream trapped inside. Blood danced in a wicked arc before diffusing into the murky water as she swiped her blade through the air. "I suppose it's a good thing I come to work early myself."

No sooner had she revealed herself that the small light of the lamp was extinguished, dropped carelessly with a loud splash and clatter that almost drowned out her words. Only what little light streamed from the world outside pushed against the encroaching darkness. The girl was held up by the waist within the other criminal's grasp and his fist clenched and unclenched at his side—as though debating whether or not to draw out a weapon. Noting this, Nicole kept her free hand close to her holstered pistol as well.

"Who… Who do ya fink ya ar'?!" he seethed, taking a step further back into the recesses of the tunnel.

"What use are introductions to a dead man?" she riposted. It felt mechanical, as if she were reciting from a script or novel, but her ebbing contempt helped the taunt's authenticity. Usually she wasn't one for such remarks, but if she wished to acquire information about the group she needed him to know she meant business and wasn't a force to take lightly. She needed him to be afraid of whatever pain she could inflict. "Let's make a deal," she continued, her steps forward outpacing his steps back, "Give me the child and answer what questions I have for you, and in return I won't carve you as a butcher might his beef."

It came as no great measure of surprise when, instead of complying, he tore a knife from his hip and held it threateningly towards the girl that hung limp across his other arm. "Stay back! If'n ya wont the girl t' live, drop the sword an' stay back or I'll—" As he moved she mirrored his act with her pistol, and at the sight of its barrel aimed toward him he fell silent once more.

"Which do you honestly believe will be faster?" she questioned, "Your knife slicing through her neck or my bullet plunging through that thick skull of yours? I assure you that at this range it's impossible for me to miss my mark." He said nothing, but the flicker of doubt within the bounder's glare was all she needed: Without further hesitation, she changed her aim by a fraction and fired a single round into her opponent's leg. A primal scream was absorbed by the overpowering rupture of the gunfire and the flat ringing of her ears. Collapsing on his injured leg, both his knife and his captive hastily abandoned as quivering hands hovered uncertainly above the wound, he continued to cry out—shouting obscenities at her all the while. Ignoring his agonized tantrum, Nicole looked over the girl's now drenched form briefly: Still unconscious, but blessedly unharmed.

The gun clicked in her grasp as its cylinder rotated into place to fire the next round, but she kept her trigger-finger steady. "That was just a warning shot," she intoned. "Devious as your senior seems to be, I would've imagined him to have hired underlings with a bit more stamina. Which now brings us to the trust heart of the matter: Who are you working for, and what do they intend to gain through these kidnappings? Remember to be careful with how you answer."

Either way he was a dead man, but as least she could end this as swiftly and painlessly as possible so long as he was willing to oblige her demands. Her face kept mostly hidden by the hood of her cloak and the cover of nightfall, she made it difficult for anyone to learn her identity. All the same, however, letting him live was a grave risk—on multiple accounts. There was the faint chance he'd scurry back to whatever hole he crawled from and never be heard again, yet greater stood the chances of his continued crime, of his seeking revenge, or of his informing his superior or the Yard of her involvement. If she killed a man who wished to cleanse himself anew, that was her sin: If she spared his life only for another to be taken by his hands, knowing fully well the consequences, it would be just as much her actions to blame. Of the two, the latter felt like the lesser of burdens…

Silence had fallen heavily between them. For a moment, the vigilante wondered if she would have to push him further in order to get him to talk. If not for the look of fear and uncertainty in his eyes she might have shot at him again or struck him with her sword, but in that same look she could tell such wasn't needed.

Her intuition proved true as he averted his eyes to the ground and released a hopeless, aching sigh before speaking. What she was not prepared for was the sudden shadow that leapt upon him from further within the tunnel and thrust a drop-point dagger through his neck—the bare tip exiting the opposite side.

 _Blast!_ Recovering from her initial surprise as the intermediary's body slumped the rest of the way to the ground, she grit her teeth and began to sprint forward. A pair of arms suddenly took her from underneath her own and locked her in place, managing to knock both weapons from her as they reached out from behind her.

The first attacker—a tall figure with wild locks of dirty blonde hair and darkened, crazed eyes to match—wasted no time in charging at her with his knife aimed for her chest. Unable to relent for a second herself, she swung her left leg up high to fend him off while craning her hands back to grab his companion by the head and rake her nails along his flesh. She winced as a sharp sting cut across her shin as it was nicked by the blade while a contained garble of pain resonated in her ears.

The latter's grip slackened, but not enough to release her until she stomped her foot back down on top of his own. The instant she was free she dropped low to the ground and shoved her weight forward once more, capturing the former by the leg and knocking him off balance. As she pressed his knee against her abdomen in a stubborn hold the rest of him fell in the other direction.

It went without saying that the pair wasn't there by coincidence. Her absence in London may have drawn them back out, but it had done nothing to prevent them from taking precautions when they chose to come back. _See what happens when you don't deal with every last weed?_ she chided herself, spinning upon her heel. _You come back home to find they're even worse than when you left them._

From the corner of her eye she caught sight of where the fallen dagger had clattered—at the edge of the water with a scuff mark along the wall it had ricocheted off of. She dove for it no sooner that the boor still standing unsheathed his own and sprung after her. Staying low and rolling forward, her hand found the weapon's hilt. Too late. Too late to dodge or counterattack, but she could redirect the strike elsewhere to avoid a more grueling injury. Forcing herself to stand Nicole met her opponent's attack head on and brushed the dagger off its course—the cruel metal finding home in her shoulder rather than her bosom.

A harsh yelp slipped from her lips as she kept him trapped before her, gripping his equipped hand by the wrist. Hazel irises met ones of a dark chocolate as she swallowed down her pain. She lashed against him with her acquired blade: A rush of scarlet spurted from the laceration sliced across his throat to stain her face and clothes.

The other dagger still embedded in her flesh, she shoved the body aside with a terse grunt and left it to its last moments choking on its own blood. The man remaining was already back on his own feet and gave no room for rest as he attacked her with a vengeance. Sidestepping his charge and knocking his punch away from her, she allowed him to thrust his own force into empty space. Down he went again.

She pounced. A knee pressed against his side and a leg wrapped around his shoulder and under his arm to keep him pinned to the ground, she sat upon his shoulder blades and kept his face trapped beneath the shallow water. His panicked, writhing mass was contrast to her stoic, stationary figure. A minute passed and he began to grow weaker; three minutes went by and he had stopped moving; more than five minutes passed and she was certain he was dead...

Moderate, tedious breathes left her as she remained still. Fingers lightly twitched around the curls of hair laced between them as she continued to hang on to the scalp, examining her work. As adrenaline left her agony filled its place and she reached up to clutch the dagger. She could still move her arm just fine—if not without some discomfort—and it was closer to her ribs: It was likely it was stuck in muscle alone rather than having severed any ligaments, good fortune that. Only the most rudimentarily of thoughts as that went through her mind until a white moth tickled her skin with its wings as it came to rest on her thumb; fluttering gently, hypnotically, as it moved along the hand near her wound.

" _Domine Iesu, dimitte nobis debita nostra, salva nos ab igne inferiori, perduc in caelum omnes animas, praesertim eas, quae misericordiae tuae maxime indigent,"_ Nicole whispered in soft prayer once she found the air to do so. " _Amen…_ "

Shooing away the insect, she carried out the last of her tasks with routine fashion: Tearing apart strips of cloth from the drowned victim's jacket in order to bind her injuries, disposing of her opponent's weapons by tossing them into the Thames while recollecting her own, and dragging the bodies of the four deceased men individually to hide them elsewhere. Were it not for her arrangements with the Undertaker, she would've left them for the high tides of the river to carry off: As it was, placing them out of the water's reach while out of the public eye proved difficult. Fortunately, she managed to find a stairwell deeper within the tunnels—a shaft of light breaking through from above undoubtedly from where the ambusher that had killed the intermediary had left the entrance partially open. Some of the lower stairs were damp but not all, and none were likely to search for them in such a forsaken place. They could be recollected easily so long as traffic was avoided.

There was much that sickened her of her current thoughts and actions. There had been a time when she had left the bodies of her targets where they dropped: Now there was the matter of hiding and reporting them to that madman, which somehow felt far more deceitful and vile. _Would it really be such a bother to the Undertaker if a coroner were to see the remains first?_ She could find no reason for his wishing to help her by disposing of the corpses in secret, and surely fascination or twisted pride meant nothing if it placed him at risk of execution as an accomplice by doing such. He never really answered her when she demanded an explanation, and thus she had given up on questioning him over it altogether even as a sense of haunting dread lingered over her. Still, there was little to be done: Beyond whatever sense of 'amusement' he claimed to reap from their acquaintanceship, there was nothing else she could think of that he would want from her enough to keep her identity a secret between them. At least he only requested it of her every now and then if she could do so…

As she hauled away the last body, she looked over the man as best she could within the darkness. His dagger and the one of his companion had been no poor instruments, even if having a firearm would've done them better in the end. They were well-cared after, cruelly sharpened, without a trace of rust or wear: The pair themselves were stronger—and better-fed—than many of the usual bruisers walked the streets. It was more than likely that they were hired killers, lying in wait in the event the transaction between the intermediary and kidnapper failed. _Whoever is behind this_ , she mused, _wanted to guarantee all remained innominate._

A sharp sting in her leg as she moved instructed her to hurry off with the child before someone else stumbled upon the scene and she tore away the useless bits of cloth shredded from where the knife had cut through. "I didn't imagine I'd spend tomorrow afternoon sewing up holes in my stockings…" Nicole uttered under her breath with a sigh, kneeling to the ground to wash her face and neck clean of the blood that clung there.

The head cradled within her lap stirred as the girl murmured upon her return to consciousness: The tender hand caressing dark locks pulled away as the latter sat up, rubbing tired eyes. "Where… where am I?" the youth questioned in a soft voice before shivering against the cold night air. "It's freezing… Why am I soak'd t' the bone?"

"You can blame it on a bloody bounder that tossed his bath water out a second-story window," a warm voice chuckled in her air.

A doe-like stare blinked in surprise before meeting Nicole's own, the second of the two maidens giving the former a small, reassuring smile. Nicole allowed the girl a moment of silence to take in her surroundings as she adjusted her cloak to be certain the stains that remained on her clothes were kept out of sight—the sewage tunnel and the Thames replaced by several crates stacked by the back entrance of a coffee house, and echoed drips replaced by a hound barking in the distance.

The girl timidly distanced herself and asked shyly, "I'm sorry, bot where ar' we? I can' remember anyfing. Las' I recall I was leavin' work, an' then—" She froze mid-sentence and her look of confusion gave way to panic. Snapping her gaze left and right around the cobblestone at their feet, her voice rose with her nerves, "Me dinner pail—'ave yous seen it? I 'ad it wif me—righ' in me hand!" Though truly a minor thing—any tobacco box found on the streets made a fine substitute—she seemed near tears over the matter, though Nicole found it more likely that her sorrow stemmed from a multitude of reasons based on her gangly, undernourished appearance and what she had overheard from the men of her capture. When anyone bottled that much anxiety inside it only took another small push to tear them apart…

"I'm afraid not," Nicole answered, shaking her head sadly. "I just saw you take a tumble." It was likely gone by now: Stolen, kicked away, or currently rolling down some alley. The girl seemed to know that much as well, for her expression grew even grimmer.

 _Best not wait then…_ Nicole thought with a bit of quiet mirth as her hand wriggled within her skirt pockets and withdrew a plain, draw-string purse the size of her palm—muffled clinking coming from within it from its contents hitting against one another. "Now, don't look so disheartened," she chided lightly, taking the girl by the hand with her fingers overlapping the other's own as she made them curl around the purse in acceptance. "I'm certain that whatever it is that's troubling you will turn out alright in the end." Harrowed eyes lowering to the object in her grasp, the girl raised a curious brow and opened it. The eldest watched in calm content, an unpreventable smirk twitching faintly at the corner of her lips, as the youth's face gradually grew brighter.

If such was the price those swine had marked on the girl's life, then Nicole saw no reason for it to go to waste and be buried with them. It was better the child have it as compensation for all they put her through and the Hell they had nearly thrust her in—even if she didn't know the circumstances that had passed during her torpid state.

"Consider it a blessing from the Lord to aid you in your struggles," Nicole cut the other off with a wave of her hand before the girl could speak. Helping her to her feet, the young woman placed her hands upon the latter's shoulders in the gentle, guiding manner. "Come now, dear. You lead the way and I'll take you home. It isn't safe for one your age to be out so late."


	5. Chapter 5

Fall had come to pass, and was soon enough followed by the weary winter months so many spent huddled against the penetrating cold that seeped through whatever crevices it found amid the homes of Londoners. Yet with the seasons' passing came tragedy and terror: Jack the Ripper, the deaths of Lord West and his Indian mistress, the slaughter of several Japanese citizens, not to mention the usual criminal affairs of the underworld… The Yard, the Queen's Watchdog, and the vigilante had all been kept on their feet throughout the bulk of the holidays.

Naturally, there had been no end of work for the Undertaker as well. The frosts brought plenty to his shop already, but the stream of murders had left him no end of new and interesting guests. Still, there would be no reprieve just yet. Upon February's arrival came also the serial kidnappings of young children, and also a circus troupe with possible ties to the incidents. Only two days previously had Earl Phantomhive come barking for information about the children like the good dog he was for the Queen, and the night prior, another child had been whisked away and several policemen slain. The mortician was left to eagerly await the development of the case as the Little Lord sniffed about with his demon butler.

Under other circumstances he wouldn't have left his funeral parlor so early in the morning or for the sake of seeing the scene of the lawmen's demise when he knew, soon enough, they would be brought to him for burial. He knew of someone who would be there though: Someone who failed to keep to her own interests all in the name of her ideals. Though she was clever enough, it was more than likely that by the time she learned of the circus's connection to the abductions that the case would already be solved. Even were she to entangle with the Earl or the kidnappers—plunging herself into a fine mess she would be unable to escape—it was no concern of his. What _did_ concern him was another matter she had been intruding upon.

With recent success, she had begun tracking the string of felonies of a certain individual who had become an excellent—as well as amusing—patron of his, and while the Viscount Druitt proved devious despite his ostentatious nature the woman's strongmindedness and ever improving skills were not to be taken lightly either. As of yet she had failed to catch more than middlemen, but Druitt sometimes made a poor habit of hunting down his victims personally. If the two were to cross paths, then either the nobleman would make a rare prize of the vigilante or _he_ would lose a useful contributor to his own goals. The worst of risks though was the possible leaking of information regarding his experiments.

The time to field test his flesh puppets drew near. All that was lacking was the refining of minor details and solidifying of plans. A meddlesome creature that wouldn't hesitate to prevent his work, that neither fear nor desire could persuade otherwise, was unsatisfactory to those plans. However, he knew better than—and didn't wish—to toss her aside so readily, especially when her regular harlequinades proved to be so entertaining.

It was best to simply guide her attention elsewhere, and there was no shortage of depravity in a country with the indoctrination that all deserved, by God's will, the lot they were thrust in life. A false slip up, the drop of a hint—that's all it would take to provoke her boundless interest and send her scuttling off in pursuit of her next target.

A large shadow flew overhead from the surrounding rooftops, but only he amongst the city's early risers was able to witness its course and hear the subsequent clatter of footsteps against brick and mortar. A Grim Reaper, darting either to or from an assignment—though Undertaker assumed the latter given the direction in which they appeared. He wasn't all that far from the scene of the slaughter.

A warm, cerise, early morning glow began to merge with hues of cadmium as the sun made its ascent, and long shadows retreated from the dawn's wake. A substantial crowd—blocked by a trio of officers— had gathered before the alleyway in which the massacre had taken place, yet the sunrise aided him in quickly finding Nicole among the flock of curious eyes—her aurulent mane draping down the slope of her back in a lustrous display, though somewhat unkempt from a seemingly hurried attempt at grooming it. While others stared in fascinated horror at the tarped bodies that had yet to be carted away to the coroner and whispered amongst themselves, the young woman stared beyond them with an intense, scrutinizing gaze and combed the area for any minor detail that would aid in her own hunt for the culprits.

A hunt that would not see fruition: He was determined to ensure that. Smiling with devilish gaiety at the mischief the crossed his thoughts, the mortician weaved through drove of people with ghostly finesse to approach Nicole from behind. Fingers curled like spider limbs wrapped around the sloping paths of her shoulders, and he felt them rise in alarm as her muscles tensed. A sharp intake of breath echoed past her lips as her head jerked his way only for startled eyes to turn livid. "Undertaker?!" She attempted to break free of his hold of her. "What are you doing here?"

"Quietly, dearie: You don't want to invite curious looks, nor would I recommend you draw your blade at a time like this," he shushed with a low giggle. Even without looking, he knew her hand lingered against her sheathed weapon—an instinct honed by the ceaseless vigilance that was demanded of her. "I could ask you the very same," he then chortled in her ear. "There really isn't much need for you _after_ the criminals have vanished. Strange that. I had imagined you to make every effort to have been there at the time of the scuffle." He took the time to smooth down a few wild locks of her hair before releasing her. Though his phrasing bore a measure of derision it was meant with no real substance of it. The dark circles that traced her eyes and the dulling of her usually keen senses were enough signs of her commitment in the matter, reflecting cold, anxious nights spent in wait on the streets for any hint of trouble.

"You understand all too well the reason for my absence. So long as certain parties meander about, I have little choice but to keep away." She didn't have to explain who those 'certain parties' were, but did add in a soft murmur as she turned her back to him once more, "Though I would have imagined them to have performed a bit better than they had with their numbers…"

"A nasty bunch, these culprits." He brought a finger to his lower lip, as though in deep musing. "Do tell, what have you learned so far? Surely there's something of interest for you to inspect the area so fiercely."

He poked her once in the cheek with his free hand in attempt to rile the quiet observations out of her, but only succeeded in getting it slapped away in irritation. Thus, he patiently left her a moment longer with her thoughts. It wasn't as though, at their distance, he could make out the full details of the locus spread before them in order to cure an already sated interest, and he wanted to assess her abilities by what she could gather from the paltry amount of clues.

"They used the rooftops," she eventually mused aloud. "A few shingles have fallen to the ground—too far from the chimneys for the sweeps to have knocked them loose and there was no wind last night to have done it either. Chances are that they used bladed weapons: I didn't see the bodies, but there are a few marks in the brick and on the ground, and what look like punctures in the mortar." She held one of her hands up to show him a pale, pink flower petal resting within her palm, running her thumb along its flat surface to reveal a white, grainy substance coating it. "They also used some sort of narcotic…"

"Not bad," he crooned with a low chuckle. "It seems those eyes of yours are as sharp as your tongue and quick as your temper. Would you care to make a little wager though, when the corpses are delivered into my care? You could be wrong about what killed the good constables."

"I'll not be tricked into playing that little game of yours again!" she snapped, pouting in indignation as her hand was drawn into a tight fist, crushing the petal within it. "You twisted the truth last time!"

"I believe it's called a technicality." He held his index finger before her face, mockingly chiding her and savoring her peeved expression. "You assumed that lad perished from a knife wound and I proved that he perished of blood loss: If he hadn't removed the knife himself before he could be brought to a doctor, he would've lived. No need to be a sour sport over it."

Before Nicole could get in the next word, a familiar figure to them both crossed through the barricade of officers and made a direct line for them. Hesitant to temper the well-known figure of authority, the mass of people subtly parted to make way for him. The silver-haired reaper took a single step and closed the distance behind the young woman, returning one hand to rest upon her shoulder and seemingly looming over her as the newcomer approached. All the while her feet remained firmly planted as they were, though her miffed glare switched to a much friendlier—if false—expression.

Ignoring his touch to look the Police Commissioner in the eyes, she greeted the latter courteously with a well-honed tongue, "Lord Randall, I'm pleased to see you're well at least. May prayers be with you and your men."

Nose crinkling, as though having caught the scent of a drunkard's bile left to ferment for hours at a pub's back door, the middle-aged man inspected them both behind the rims of his glasses. His brow twitched irksomely and he adjusted his top hat in provoked habit. Whatever he had been prepared to say to her were apparently silenced by the mortician's being there: He couldn't easily pull her away from the crowd to threaten her, interrogate her, or accuse her of some wrong while the Undertaker stood as a colleague at her side. Therefore, his response was delayed as he took a brief moment to consider his words carefully. "I believe I've said this once to you before, Miss Abott, but such a place as this is no place for a lady. A woman shouldn't expose herself to these grotesque matters—and I daresay you've witnessed enough wretched circumstances in your short time." He paused once more, gaze flicking over the street returning to meet hers as he then inquired, "You live nearby, don't you? Though, seeing you safe from harm, I'm assured you had no run in with the viscous lot involved in this."

The Undertaker hid a smirk behind the sleeve of his robes. As incompetent in their work as the Yard proved to be, Arthur was a discerning man: The same young woman taking a peculiar, perverse interest in crime scenes—standing before the flock of onlookers with a knowledgeable, observing gleam in her eyes—was more than enough to grant him suspicion against her, even if he failed to consider her being the vigilante they fervently searched for. And she had already been seen 'coincidentally' stumbling across a few corpses that were, in truth, of her own design. However, amongst who else knew of her, she was nothing more than a woman of strong faith who was kind to all she met and taught the children of her church and tenement when they would otherwise have little to no means of study because of their work in the factories: The favor people held her in and the lack of evidence against her made her practically untouchable.

"Thank goodness, no. I live in Bethnal Green," she sighed, feigning relief when he knew she must've been boiling with frustration underneath the surface. He nearly snorted when she turned Arthur's interrogation against him by asking with a smile, "Where were you, Lord Commissioner?" To others, it was a show of polite concern: Only they three knew of the bold derision and outright abhorrence projected in her words.

If the Yard did catch her, she would pay for her brazen speech in spades. While Arthur was revered for his station, those unfortunate enough to know his true nature often found themselves facing agonies far worse than death. Even now, as Undertaker watched his reactions, the man seemed to be savoring the details of the gruesome process befitting her end: It would be slow and it would be painful, that much was guaranteed if the latter were to finally lay hands on her.

 _Nevertheless, I'll still steal away what remains of you from under the bloke's nose,_ the ancient Shinigami longed to tease her with morbid hilarity. As often made as the promise was, by now he actually felt a sort of possession of her in that regard. Through her Cinematic Record, he would unearth the fragments of a long-gone self that she kept buried; and he would decide whether she was to rest eternally beneath the ground or continue to play some role amongst the undead within the grand drama that he orchestrated. To see her disposed in any cold manner would be nothing short of insolence, and would be a misdeed against the memorable, fierce temperament she bore as she lived.

Lord Randall's brow gave a vexed, twitching motion before stilling once more—a slight break in his otherwise calm and controlled façade. "I'd other business to attend to involving the case, though I don't know whether to call it Providence or misfortune for the fact. Perhaps an extra man is all they might've needed." Undertaker wondered momentarily if in some fashion that 'business' pertained to the police files the young Earl had left behind at his shop on the chance that the man was telling the truth. However, he saw no good reason to mention them.

"I suspect the coroner will have a fair look at them before those poor fellows are brought to my door," he voiced, bringing the commissioner's stare to meet his for the first time since the former's approach. Leaning his head forward over the young woman's shoulder, he then asked, "It's up to their families, of course, but when do you suppose I can expect them?" He questioned the grim matter so casually that Nicole shot him a disapproving glance while the other man slightly recoiled in place—all in accordance to the purpose that had drawn the inquiry from him, to remind the latter of his presence and frighten him away. The longer the bloke talked the longer his own business with the girl was postponed, and were she to find it suit to leave the scene in an effort to avoid Arthur's prodding than he possibly would have little other chance to speak with her again before she began her hunt.

"That would depend upon their loved ones' wishes, not the Yards. You'll have to wait for their consonance." The scowl Randall cast might've caused lesser men to shrink back in submission. "If that's all you came for, then I'm afraid you've no business skulking about."

"I'd imagine I'd at least come and have a look-see how much work I have cut out for me."

A small, apathetic nod was all he received before the other dipped his head back to the young woman. "I've heard of your regular prayer meeting attendance at the Oxford House, but we've advised all citizens to remain in-doors after nightfall."

"Been asking around about this pretty, little dear, have you? My, my, Lord Randall, I daresay I hadn't believed you to be chasing skirts." Two faces shot him repudiating, disgusted glances: He returned them with a Cheshire's smile.

The Commissioner pulled a handkerchief out from his coat pocket, wiping his glasses with it as he cleared his throat in discontent. "I'll be off then, madam, Undertaker… You both would do well to keep off the streets after dark until this matter is resolved."

Without so much as a tip of his hat, he spun upon his heel and retreated back through the crowd to where his officers awaited him. The mortician and vigilante remained in silence as he left, watching his form until it disappeared beyond the crossing of two alleys. As if feeling the disaffection from her person, Undertaker gave a throaty croon and drummed him fingers upon the curve of her shoulders where his hands still rested. When she tried to shake him away he shifted his hold to clasp her by the forearms, evoking a wicked glare from her in turn.

"You're aware that chap wants you dead," It wasn't a question so much as a statement that he whispered in a solemn tone. "He'll be having his men keep a particular eye out for a certain woman with a cloak and sword. The Underworld's recent affairs have him riled even further—like a maddened, rabid dog tethered to its post. Perhaps, for a week or so in the very least, it might be better to postpone your next chase."

Her eyes narrowed, "Those very affairs are the reason I need to continue my work. The Yard hasn't forced me to turn tail yet, and I don't intend to let them."

"I see you're as stubborn as always." With that said, he eased his grip on her enough so that she could wriggle herself free from him. As she spun on her heel to face him, he continued, "I can assure you though, you've no purpose in going after these criminals: I daresay their activities will come to close by the week's end—what with the Queen's Watchdog sniffing them out."

That was a title even the likes of she knew, for even though who it belonged to remained a mystery to her it was a thing of apprehension whispered by many of the East End's nefarious denizens. With unease was also the understanding that any mission the Watchdog undertook was seen through to the letter, therefore he felt mentioning the little Lord's involvement would give her further reason to give up her hunt just this once.

She never questioned how he happened upon such knowledge as the Watchdog's activities, but then he likely wouldn't answer her if she did. Besides that, it was also likely that it didn't come as much of a shock to her after their first meeting: He was aware of her rarely voiced suspicions that he was more than a humble mortician.

"Moreover, don't you have more than enough work piling up as it is?" With a dismissing wave of his hand, he casually began to retreat from the crowd. Not a moment after, he heard the rhythmic trod of her boots tailing after him. "You were bedridden for some time not at all long ago, weren't you? Surely, you've been busy catching up thanks to that. There is your usual work to consider, along with your prayer meetings, your tutoring the neighborhood children, that lead you've told me you've been following and any 'special requests' you might receive. Not to mention the ordeal in Chatham…"

"What's happened in Chatham?"

He did well to contain his amusement as she tugged upon the bait he had cast. Already he could see the gears turning behind her inquisitive stare, seizing the task and plotting an appropriate course of action to suit it. Like a knight spoken of in the romantic tales of a bygone age, so she would venture forward with all haste to the dragon's keep. Casting a subtle glance at her from over his shoulder, feigning rebuff, he laced his fingers together before his chest. "Hmm? I assumed you knew, dearie. Then again, I suppose you're not quite _in the know._ Well, to be fair, it's all been kept very discretely: Not even the papers have managed a nibble of the issue." He toyed with her only for the sake of doing so, curious to see if she would put in some further effort to gain his knowledge. Rupturing her stern demeanor always proved entertaining enough for him to oblige her with his aid on the few occasions she aversely requested it, but she had yet been willing to play the fool for him on her own accord. Why not attempt to make her jump a bit for what she wanted?

"Undertaker," her voice was cold and she folded her arms across her chest in refusal as if having read his thoughts. "I've already told you I've no interest in playing games: If you know of something, then tell me." Silence hung between them for a moment while he allowed her to writhe in her lack of awareness, giving her a smug grin. She drummed her fingers once along her arm and gave him a childish pout before casting her eyes to the ground and adding in a low, averse mumble, "Please…"

He chortled: Even that much of an effort on her part was akin to pulling teeth. At any other time, he might've seen how far he could push the woman, but—with the circumstances being what they were—he would indulge her. "You've never heard of the Magpie Hall Lane Workhouse, have you? I believe they've a few positions open. No doubt you'll find suitable work there for someone of your talents."


	6. Chapter 6

Other than for the faint ticking of the brass mantle clock resting upon the console table to their left, the small parlor remained eerily quiet. No discussion passed between the room's sole occupants as one shifted through a collection of papers while the other nursed a cup of green tea in her hand. It was a touch weak, and its grassy flavor offered her little appeal, yet she had graciously accepted it nevertheless. It was only polite, and it was something other than the usual Bohea she managed to afford. In the very least, the man sitting in the button-back accent chair alongside her had brewed it himself as she had watched on, so she knew it wasn't drugged—though she dared not touch the bread and butter laid aside, instead blaming her lack of appetite on a late, mid-morning collation.

"And you said your name was… Miss Abigail Turner, was it?" questioned Fergus Cotter, master of the workhouse. His voice startled her from her inspection of the sparsely decorated chamber to bring her attention back on him.

"Correct." Nicole gave a gentle smile as the fib poured from her lips with disgraceful ease—setting the teacup upon its saucer and the table before her. No earthly force would ever have made her divulge her real name. As far as anyone else was concerned, Nicole Abott was visiting a friend whose husband had chosen to immigrate their family to the States: She had the falsified, self-written letter to prove it.

The hands that returned the papers to her own grasp were rough from years of hard work and marred by burn scars. The chestnut eyes that finally met hers were filled with more than a decade's worth of experience over her own brief time upon the earth. When he grinned it always seemed forced, as though he did so only for the sake of company though in truth he may have taken no real joy in anyone's presence. Middle-aged, unmarried, and with a large number of people to tend to, he was a man of few words beyond necessity—that much she could tell. Despite this, however, he had thus far made an effort to be pleasant. "I see you lack no sense in preparation. I'm certain that the children will be well managed in your hands."

Though she could've registered as a denizen of the workhouse, it had truly been a piece of good fortune that a job had recently opened as a schoolteacher. Though it paid less than a usual tutor might have made, it was a blessing she hadn't questioned when the opportunity arose. As such she would have more time for her investigation, along with more freedom than those given no choice but to stay and slave their hours there. While she otherwise might've been ruled by a curfew, no one would easily wonder over her late hours in assumption of her grading papers or preparing for the classroom's next lesson.

"Thank you, though I must admit I'm surprised by there even being such work available here. I don't suspect it common for a workhouse to offer a decent education for its occupants."

For a moment, a glimmer of pride appeared within his stare. "It is the responsibility of a workhouse to aid those unable to care for themselves and make those that potentially can be able. I find it disappointing to allow those young still whittle their years in places as these when they could be making fit contributions to society." His own cup of tea was raised to his lips, his eyes narrowing as his gaze focused upon the warm liquid.

How strange those words seemed, and yet they fit in place all the same. 'Blessed be the poor' stood as a common ideal amongst the majority of London's higher classes, or if not then the belief in simply minding one's spending as a cure for poverty was most favored. Others would say the poor never tried for an education and thereby a better living, but then society more often than not refused the means for them to obtain either. Large families forced to share a one or two room home with filthy water and other unsanitary conditions, long work hours dictated by a strict enforcement of labor and little pay, children falling asleep in their seats during what few opportunities they had to attend school: These were but the typical struggles of the lower class.

Workhouses, built though they were to aid the destitute, often gave the least of opportunities for a poor man, and that was what she found most surprising of Cotter's words. More than anything, it was akin to a prison for those who truly had no other manner of survival. Residents were divided amongst themselves by age and gender—a married couple may not see one another nor their children save for perhaps an hour a day at best—and those of able body earned their keep through hard labor. They earned no more than what would assure them a meal for the day and a bed for the night, thus they remained trapped in their misfortune.

Yet she was instructed to be ready to teach not merely one, but two large classes of children divided by the youngest and the eldest: One in the morning, the other in the afternoon, so both groups might attend to their lessons and their daily work. The charity and sensibility that had gone into such a plan of study by the master was astonishing…

"I find we're blessed to have found someone as yourself. Proper tutors are sorely lacking for our sort of institution," he continued, though his features returned to their usual bland expression and made it difficult to tell whether or not his comment was sincere. "Our previous schoolteacher… Well, you're bound to hear it—good chap as he was, I fear something ailed his mind. He left us suddenly, even abandoning some of his books in his haste. You're free to use them until he makes a call for their return, naturally."

That held her interest. Workhouse teachers often only stayed for a few months before moving on, but that was because of the conditions they endured. A teacher going mad… Most, if not all, workhouses contained a designated area specified for those with mental illnesses: Would it not have been more logical to have one of their own doctors to tend to him, or else have him sent to another establishment for similar care, rather than have allowed him to journey off on his own? "Poor dear… I do hope he receives the necessary help. What ailed him so?" she prodded, maintain a composer of worry as she all but moved to the edge of her seat in desire for the smallest piece of information.

"He grew paranoid. I'm not quite certain how, but he claimed to be hearing things outside of the classroom—yet I'm not sure what it might've been. It was once an infirmary, but besides that classroom, all that has otherwise occupied the building for some time now is the elderly. And all the other rooms are used for on the second floor besides that one is storage. Though we have, of course, set aside a room for you as well." Cotter rose to his feet—pausing a moment to retrieve an old pocket-watch from inside his waistcoat, read the time, and return it soon after. "We recently constructed a new infirmary block just west of us a few years ago: We haven't the materials or the funds to build a schoolhouse, thus we've made do with one of the spare rooms. If you'll follow me, please, I'll show you to the classroom post-haste."

He was already at the door by the time she had set her cup down and risen from her seat. Taking what small baggage she had brought with her, she followed him out into the long corridor that stretched from the workmen's quarters to the receiving ward. Afterward, it was a short walk outside to the building that would be her temporary workplace and temporary residence.

Near the front of it, a sort of shop had been fashioned for miscellaneous goods—whittled or stitched by hand. As Cotter took notice of her own observations, he explained, "Trinkets made by your new neighbors. Best have them apply themselves in some manner. Better than putting them to more grueling tasks or allowing them to waste away like prisoners."

"You've given them a creative outlet," she offered as he held the door open for her and motioned her inside.

"Exactly," he grinned, stepping in behind her. "Now, Miss Turner—and I pray you won't find this rude of me—but you should know that some of the other occupants may experience… outbursts, in the night. It's nothing for you to concern yourself with: I would implore you to leave all matters to their caretakers."

His words were thinly veiled, and she answered without bothering to conceal the meaning in hers. "You must pardon me if I speak with any vanity, but you'll find I'm a fair bit too doughty to be frightened away by strange noises."

"I like to hear that." He gave a single nod. "A person of a stalwart nature like that is always well received. Though some may frown upon it, Miss Turner, I am a resolute believer in Social Darwinism. Those that shall thrive in our society shall thrive from their own strengths. If you can pass on the sort of strength you carry to the children, I will proclaim you a scholar worth as great a mark as any man that walked through the gates of Cambridge."

Nicole returned the gesture, but soon after turned her head and said nothing. While she didn't agree with the concept, she did feel it was something that grew increasingly prevalent. With each day and night bearing the question of survival, her work as a vigilante—and as a resident in London's East End—made it impossible for her to deny it entirely. The strongest survived by crushing those beneath them while the weakest scrambled for rotten vegetables and spare coins in the alleys. _I doubt such was what Charles Darwin had envisioned during his studies on evolution though,_ she thought to herself in silence.

No further discussion was made for the remainder of their brief journey, thus Nicole was left the cradle her own musings and the growing sense of unease that tickled along the slope of her back. At a glance, nothing seemed out of the ordinary: Fair efforts for sanitation were evident just as in the main building, the rooms they passed possessed a calm atmosphere, and people grinned in a friendly manner as they walked by. All of this, however, was what unsettled her. Those smiles were as natural as could be, she felt certain of that much, but it felt all too likely that they were born of something too good to be true.

 _Then again, perhaps that nutter sent me on a wild-goose chase simply for his own amusement_ , she pondered as she fought off a scowl. It seemed just as likely so that the Undertaker would go to such lengths to tease her—even if it meant facing her outrage upon her return. There had been no evidence elsewhere warranting her own suspicion: Her lead relied solely on the mortician's word. She might have shown more hesitance toward this particular job of hers were it not for his earnest manner of speaking and the fact that he had, thus far, never lied to her. 

Down the hall, up a creaking wooden stairwell, and a few steps later, she found herself peering into a room that was nearly three times in length what it was in width. The only source of lighting appeared to be from the six windows that lined it. Row after row of benches, chairs, and tables—various in their simple designs and worn from age—lined it from front to back. There was a line of four bookshelves that leveled to her shoulder, but sadly what books where there could barely fill one and many of the publications seemed tattered from lack of care. A fairly new chalkboard had been set into the wall at her left, and several slates covered the students' desks. In the nearest corner on the opposing wall of the door, a pinewood desk and chair had been placed aside for her own use. Beyond a collection of papers left behind by the previous schoolteacher, a vase of wildflowers also rested on its surface.

"Though they're hard at work for the day, the children wanted you to feel welcome," Cotter smiled, handing her a key and gesturing toward a door opposing the classroom. "You should have every necessity—there's a few spare blankets in a trunk by your bed should you need them. The communal washroom is downstairs. As I previously mentioned, breakfast is at half past seven and your first class begins at nine, so I will leave you for the remainder of the day so you may settle in and prepare. If you have any concerns, feel free to consult me." Then, with barely an adieu, he was gone.

For a moment, Nicole did nothing. She remained silently where she was and listened closely for any disturbance. Yet there was none—not even the bustle of activity that flourished mid-day. Elderly or not, they had been given their own tasks to complete and it was nearly time for dinner. With a raised brow, stepping with such a light tread so not a single board would moan beneath her, she moved into the classroom and paused nearby the schoolteacher's desk—sliding her baggage by her feet. Nothing. All remained quiet.

Perhaps the workhouse's previous educator truly had gone 'round the bend, but she gave nothing to such chances. Were he sane, whatever he heard would have to carry above the usual noise. She hadn't ventured to ask what sort of things he might have heard, but Cotter had given her a fair clue by remarking on the occasional 'outbursts' she was to ignore.

Beyond supper, she had the evening to herself. She could explore the grounds, or question the inmates and other employees. By eight o'clock, most would have retired, and she would have the workhouse as her own to roam.

She wanted to return to London as quickly as possible, but settled for taking her time. She was a new face in an isolated world: If she brought attention to herself too early, it would give room for suspicion. Thus, for the being, she would give the people here time to grow accustomed to her presence.

Just as her hand fell habitually over her blade, an uproarious course of laughter shattered through the stillness. She flinched, but continued to listen in silence until it had dwindled back to nothing. The sound had been natural, just as the smiles had been.

Something was wrong with the workhouse.


End file.
